


Unsheathed

by orphan_account



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Blowjobs, M/M, Victor's Secret, Wonder Sheath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold didn't wear a sheath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsheathed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sheathed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/782289) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> So if you're wondering what this whole thing is all about, it began with [this hilarious tumblr post about penis sleeves](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/44757904191/devildoll-princess-fluffybutt). And then astolat wrote [Sheathed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/782289), which you don't need to read to make sense of this fic, but should anyway, because it's great. And then I couldn't stop thinking about the universe.

Harold didn't wear a sheath. 

John found out by accident, when Harold's pants got torn all the way down the front on a case. He got half a second of a completely unexpected eyeful, and then the number's ex-boyfriend burst into the room, and there wasn't any time left for staring. By the time he'd gotten the man subdued, Harold had repaired the damage with a couple of safety pins; nothing to see there.

He couldn't stop thinking about it, afterwards. It was borderline indecent, going around without a sheath; almost unthinkably so from Harold, with his old-fashioned manners and his impeccable dress sense. It was like catching the _president_ freeballing it. 

He would have figured it for just a one-off. Maybe it had been laundry day ( _but it was Harold_ ) or he'd been running late ( _but it was Harold_ ), or – okay, none of the usual excuses made any goddamn sense with Harold, but maybe he just hadn't felt like it that day. 

But John couldn't seem to stop himself from looking afterwards, and so he couldn't help but notice that there was an awful lot of unrestrained movement going on down there. 

It just didn't make sense to him. He'd known some smaller guys who rarely bothered, if they weren't vain enough to go the Powersheath route. Not that much point to strapping down a AA dick. But what Harold was packing sure as hell wasn't AA. John had only gotten the briefest look, but he figured 22D, at the very least. Maybe even DD – the sizing got a bit confusing towards the larger end of the spectrum, especially with the smaller thigh bands. 

John wore a perfectly unremarkable 25C and it sure as hell already showed, if he got… excited, without a sheath on. 

Of course he'd also known plenty of swaggering bruisers who didn't wear sheaths, guys who needed everyone to see how manly they were, going around with their dick all up in people's faces; but that was hardly Harold, either. 

It wasn't the most mysterious of Harold's idiosyncrasies, or even the strangest one, but it rapidly turned into the one he spent the most time thinking about. 

*******

They'd been stuck in traffic for almost half an hour now. Some sort of protest had spilled onto Broadway, and traffic was backed up for blocks around it. A bunch of drunken idiots on the fringes of the group were loudly making idiots of themselves protesting for men's rights, yelling about oppression and trying to burn their sheaths in the street. John could have told them that wouldn't work out too well, with a bunch of garments made mostly from cotton and lycra and no accelerant in sight. Harold was watching the spectacle with a prim little frown of distaste on his face. 

" _You_ don't wear a sheath," John said, grinning.

When he looked over, Harold was blushing fiercely. "Well, I do admit it's a bit of a guilty indulgence," he said. "But there's no reason to make a spectacle of oneself. I find that generally, a little self-control is all that's required."

John raised an eyebrow at that. Everyone's dick had a mind of their own occasionally, didn't they? But, okay, if anyone could keep it down through sheer force of will, it was probably Harold. 

After all, he really had never seen any… reaction, from Harold. And he would have noticed - he couldn't seem to stop looking, now. 

********

John came out of the bathroom with his hair still dripping down his naked back. "Get me a shirt delivered, will you?" he told Harold, who was sitting in front of the hotel's narrow desk with his laptop. John's shirt had been a total loss, but at least his pants hadn't gotten splattered this time, and none of the blood was his; about all he asked, these days. 

"Certainly," Harold said. 

John smiled to himself, listening to the busy clattering of keys. Ah, New York, where you could get anything you needed delivered in a hotel room at two am. At least if you had a billionaire conveniently picking up the tab. 

He did a few easy stretches, letting his body come down slowly from the thrumming high of combat. It had been an easy, satisfying day – a life saved, the perpetrator in police custody, and no one badly hurt. The sort of day that made him feel good about the work, and, by extension, about Harold, who had given him this chance. He looked up at Harold, still smiling, and abruptly frowned. 

Harold looked tense, hunched stiffly over his computer. 

"Harold? You okay?" John asked. He crossed the room in two long strides and crouched down in front of Harold. Harold was staring fixedly at his screen, not looking at him. John reached out and gently but firmly turned Harold's chair to face him. One quick glance down Harold's body to check for injuries - and then another glance, slower, lingering, when he realized what he'd actually seen. He smirked. 

Harold was hard. John stared, fascinated, completely delighted by the shockingly rude spectacle of it, the demanding way Harold's dick pressed up against his fly. "You know, that's why people wear sheaths, Harold," he said, gently teasing – or at least, that's how he'd meant it. But above him, Harold was going crimson with embarrassment. 

"I apologize," Harold said stiffly. "I don't usually – Well. I'm very sorry." He shifted, starting to get up. "You'll excuse me."

John, struck by a sudden, reckless impulse, grabbed him by the hips and gently pushed him back down. 

"Don't," he said. "It's fine. Relax, Harold, will you?"

He slid his hands around until they were resting high up on Harold's thighs. Harold was looking down at him, puzzled. "John?" he asked, his voice faint, a little too high. 

"Let me," John said, giving him a tentative smile. 

"I… But… Yes, of course, anything you like, but –" Harold was staring down at him helplessly. He broke off with a startled gasp when John slid one hand just a bit further up and let his thumb brush against Harold's cock. He could feel the heat of Harold's skin through the fine soft fabric of his pants, feel how gratifyingly hard he was, when John had barely touched him yet. John traced Harold's cock with his fingers, outlined the shape of it. 

Harold was still watching him, wide-eyed. "I never realized you were interested," he said.

John smiled up at him, his ridiculous hair, the startled look in his eyes, rode out the swell of affection in his chest. "For a genius, you really aren't all that observant sometimes," he said. He nuzzled his face against Harold's thigh. God, this was amazing, finally being allowed to touch. 

Harold stroked an errant strand of hair back from John's temple, his touch light, careful, like he wasn't sure of his welcome. John pushed into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment. But he wanted to look, now that he could finally do it without worrying about getting caught. 

Harold's thighs were wide open to make space for John, and the fabric of his pants stretched tight over his cock. John couldn't get over how _dirty_ this was, the whole indecent display of it, and from _Harold_ , who didn't even like to leave the house without a vest and a pocket square. 

He pressed a kiss to Harold's cock, feeling the heat of it against his lips. Harold drew in a sharp breath. John's own cock was starting to hurt, held down tight by his sheath. 

He pulled Harold's shirt from his pants and undid just enough buttons that he could push the tails to the side, undid the pants and pushed the fly wide open. He leaned back a little to look. Harold was still wearing his vest and jacket, his tie knotted tight against his throat; the very picture of decorum, until you looked down to see his cock straining obscenely against his briefs, framed in the open fly of his expensively tailored pants. John leaned forward and mouthed him through the fabric, rubbing his tongue against soft cotton until he could almost taste Harold's skin through it. 

When he looked up, Harold's hands were tight on the arms of his chair. "John –" he said, half pleading. 

Enough teasing, then. John pushed his briefs out of the way and took him down, sucking hard and tight. Harold gave one startled little thrust of the hips and then forced himself still again, but he was heaving in great shuddering breaths, obviously clinging to control by a thread; it was gratifying as hell. 

John sucked him with his eyes closed, letting himself savor it, the sounds Harold couldn't help making, his shaking hand brushing gently against the side of John's face before he put it on John's shoulder, holding on tight. 

Harold warned him before he came, scrupulously polite even now, but John just kept up the rhythm, let Harold come on the back of his tongue, and swallowed with his eyes closed, feeling satisfied on some strange deep level despite the urgent ache in his cock. 

Harold went limp and boneless in his chair, sliding down a little before John caught him by the hips. John would have let him sit and catch his breath for a while, but when he couldn't help shifting, trying to easy the discomfort in his restrained cock, Harold abruptly sat up and gave him an apologetic smile. 

"Let me – why don't you come up here," he said, patting the top of the desk, after visibly considering the logistics of the situation for a moment. 

For someone who disliked sheaths so much, Harold was pretty ruthless about letting John suffer in his. John had to struggle not to squirm while Harold unbuttoned his shirt and pants. Harold was taking his time about it, brushing against John quite a bit more than John thought was really necessary. 

Harold frowned down at his sheath, which was barely keeping his cock contained at this point, straining at the seams. "You should really get these tailored," Harold said. "This is too tight."

"It _really is_ ," John said, mildly reproving, when Harold ran a finger down the length of him. "You're not helping," he added. 

"Patience, John," Harold said, completely unimpressed as always with John's answering glare. But he was finally, finally reaching to release him, unhooking the thigh strap and tugging the sheath off. 

John breathed a sigh of relief. He bucked helplessly into Harold's first touch. 

"Try and hold still, please," Harold said, and John was just about to say something about how he might want to stop teasing, then, when Harold put his mouth on John's cock. 

Harold wasn't practiced, that much was obvious, but he was patient and methodical, and John had never been with anyone who could read him as well as Harold could. Within five minutes, Harold had it all thoroughly figured out, and John clawing at the desk with both hands, gasping helplessly.

John gave him plenty of warning when he got close, fully expecting him to pull off. When Harold instead made an encouraging little sound and kept sucking, he came so hard it nearly knocked him off the desk and left him entirely stunned, after. He watched with wide-eyed fascination as Harold swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the careless gesture somehow shockingly dirty from prim, proper Harold. His spent cock gave a painful little twitch. 

All his muscles had gone limp and floppy on him. Abruptly it was all he could do not to slump backwards all over Harold's computer equipment. He slid bonelessly off the desk instead, folding into a comfortable heap on the floor, his head in Harold's lap. Harold was watching him bemusedly. After a while, he tentatively started petting John's hair. 

It was nice. John was giving serious thought to never moving ever again. But Harold was already starting to shift underneath him, getting restless. That big brain of his never did well running in idle. 

John sighed and reluctantly shifted back up to his knees. Harold watched with an air of faint smugness as John stuffed himself back into his sheath, wincing at every touch against his oversensitive skin. 

And really, it was a little rich for him to act like he was above needing that sort of physical restraint when his self-control had just failed him so spectacularly, John thought. John leaned in, nuzzling against Harold's thigh and then licking his cock, a few quick, gentle flicks of his tongue, until Harold hissed between his teeth and grabbed him by the hair to pull him off. 

John grinned up at him, triumphant. Harold's cock was already hardening again. Not all the way, not even close – they were neither of them teenagers anymore – but plenty enough to ruin the line of a suit. 

Harold sighed. "I see you're going to delight in making my life harder, as usual, Mr. Reese" he said, and his voice was exasperated, but the look in his eyes was nothing but fond. 

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's called a Wonder Sleeve in the original thread, but let's be honest here, this thing's marketed to guys with small dicks, so I totally think they'd call it something like Power Sleeve instead, ha.


End file.
